i.

The air is soaked with laughter; squeals and shrill shrieks splatter the space. Considering it’s summer, it is unusual that the wind bites, but it does. The children don’t seem to notice as they run around the playground, consumed by their games of tag and lava monster. Mothers wearily watch on, and those that are lucky to know each other make small talk about their day and their children.

ii.

You tear past a trio engaged in conversation, narrowly missing plowing into a powder blue stroller. Your shoe catches the gap in the sidewalk, and you plunge. Into the rough tanbark you fall, and your knees are shaved by the rough edge, where the sidewalk ends. Your wail drowns out the voices. Half of the heads turn to watch, and as a mother rushes to help you, they rotate back and resume their conversation or observation.

iii.

The scabs on your knees have almost healed. They are at that stage where it’s itchy underneath, as though a million ants are trying to escape from under your skin through this flap that is a scab. You know you shouldn’t scratch, but the need to rip the healing skin is too great. The ants want to be freed.

iv.

The ant army is forever indebted to you. You watch them when you play outside, as they march by in lines and lines. They can be your people, for your peers are not enough. You are the queen of the ants.